


you seeped into my bones a long time ago

by rainsoakedcoat (fistpumpwoo)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fistpumpwoo/pseuds/rainsoakedcoat
Summary: Steve survives without Bucky, until he doesn't anymore.
(A love story told in fractured parts.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be alternatively called: *slams fist on table* more Steve!manpain fics!
> 
> I want to thank my friends for dealing with me talking about writing, (then finishing, then editing!) this piece for months now, as well as providing unwavering support and feedback. Especially my beta, Jordan.
> 
> In all seriousness, make sure to take care and abstain from reading this fic if the subject matter is upsetting to you.  
> Hope you enjoy.

The day James Buchanan Barnes fell, Steven Grant Rogers fell with him.

The boy who had held him for seventeen years, gave him a home, a muse to draw; the boy who kick-started the broken heart Steve harbored, was gone.

Living evidence of cold noses pressed into shoulders, warm bread passed between hands, the sound of laughter, the smell of charcoal drifting in an open apartment, was no longer present.

Forty-five seconds after the fall, the light in Steve’s eyes had been extinguished. His ribs were hollow from then on.

Those fleeting moments, dreaming with Peggy of a fate unaccustomed to death and destruction, were beautiful in their own right. Regardless, Steve welcomed the icy slumber, he accepted his impending death, for if he were to be without his best friend, he would rather be lost to the depths of time.

—

The first six weeks after Steve had woken up were the brunt of the pain. No longer able to immerse himself in the heat of battle, he ended up throwing himself into heroic missions the minute loneliness came around. Twelve hour days at the gym were spent pushing his lungs and muscles to the point of exhaustion. Steve would lose himself in the swing of the punching bag, the strength in his arms, guilt fueling the adrenaline in his veins. The outside world fell away the moment he would step into that room, visions of stunningly blue eyes haunting him meanwhile.

The twenty-third day since he had been released from the ice, he punched the bag clear across the room, sand spilling across the floor. He could no longer remember the way those eyes sparkled when the sun rose.

Instead, he remembers feeling the blood trickle down his hot knuckles.

He remembers the numbness in his bones, pain not presenting itself.

He remembers the ache in his chest, legs giving out beneath him.

His skin stitched itself back together, the cuts healing too quickly. Droplets of sweat rolled off his skin and onto the floor, breaths loud in the now-still air. The fluorescent lights above flickered.

—

Steve didn’t allow these setbacks to keep him from isolating himself. Almost no one came to see him. Fury would visit, some days. Steve would ignore him, focused on forgetting everything but the task at hand, keeping himself in fighting condition, punching bag or not. Nothing mattered anymore; even the times when he pulled himself away from his training he remained solitary, the small invitations from various fellow Avengers getting ignored every time. The idea of surrendering to Steve’s own desires made him ill, and so he continued on with his unforgiving exercise regimen.

He was no longer worthy of enjoying the world around him, not if the only person who ever stuck around after brawls was gone, _because of him._ Steve could never call him a brother, the love too intense, the trembling in Steve’s shoulders every time the other man brushed away the dried blood too-telling. There was no point in exploring anything outside of SHIELD business, and if he could make anyone proud, he’d hope it’d be Peggy, following in her footsteps of dedicating one’s self to making the world a better place. It was the least he could do, providing some compensation for the love he squandered.

As long as the Avengers would have him, he’d be bringing any and all Hydra-affiliated individuals to justice. It was the least he could do for the man whose name was somewhere in the Smithsonian.

For the man whose name was somewhere buried in the icy ground, forgotten, beneath hard soil.

Maybe Steve could make him proud too.

—

Some nights, Steve would wake up, covered in sweat, trembling, only to vomit what little he had eaten that day into the toilet.

He’d wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and curl himself around the porcelain again, the all-too-familiar taste lulling him to sleep.

Some nights, he’d sit by the window and draw the curve of an eyebrow, the swell of a bicep, the plush softness of a pink mouth he knew only from sight, only to rip the sketches out and toss them away by the light of the sunrise.

 

After he fights the Winter Soldier, he realizes inertia has brought them together once more. They will never be able to be away from the other, constantly in an orbit reminding each other of their dependency. Without one, the other would never be truly alive.

The nights where he draws stay the same save for the drawings become long hair, broad shoulders, and the murky recognition of a man broken and put back together too many times trying to come back to himself again.

These drawings end up shoved beneath Steve’s mattress, the cover of stars allowing him to pretend that his body does not constantly ache.

—

The day Steve is on the bridge, he contemplates getting rid of it all, for the second time. He has the true certainty that he wouldn’t be waking up as a time-travel transplant. He braces his hands on the railing, considers, and he decides Natasha and the others would be able to handle things on their own, they would avenge him, and maybe the Winter Soldier would be—

Sam’s presence is not unwelcome, heavy hand dropping onto Steve’s shoulder, softly telling him that finding the Winter Soldier again can be a reality, if he makes it one himself, and the minute Steve’s feet are back on the ground, Sam takes six steps back.

Steve continues to make eye contact with the horizon, guilt and fear and hope all roiling in his stomach, twisting his gut, and he can feel the twinge in his muscles from his morning run with Sam, who looks at Steve without pity, simply accepting the fact that the tendons in Steve’s hands were poised for takeoff, that his toes were pointing towards the rushing waters below, that Steve forces himself to be perfect, because he can feel the guilt eating him alive, that he is holding the weight of the world on his shoulders, _that he has been and always will be, SHIELD, and he will never be able to run away from it._

He realizes his attempt would have been futile. Even in death, Steve would be haunted by his legacy, his photograph lit up in the same museum as the man who haunts his dreams, whose whispers do not go unheard.

He has allowed himself to savor the taste of friendship again, his love for Sam allowing him to see the good in what he has done, allowing Steve to realize that he always knows exactly how to counterreact to Steve, and he counts the nebulas he knows in order to breathe correctly instead of crumbling at the idea that he almost lost out on Sam and Natasha and the Winter Soldier remembering himself again and Steve realizes that hope is a thing with wings and

Sam takes a breath, tells him that the Winter Soldier is not the kind you save, he’s the kind you stop, but Steve knows otherwise.

—

Some nights are better than others, and he doesn’t wake up thinking about the Commandos, or the way Bucky’s clothes always smelled like smoke, or the feeling of skin on his late at night, sharing secrets in the dark, and he is able to lay down on a mattress for more than two hours and twelve minutes at a time.

Some nights are worse, and he grabs the pistol he keeps beneath his mattress, bypassing the memories held under the cushioning and forgets about the pleasures he has allowed himself to carry without guilt and instead he holds the cold metal to his temple and he breathes and he asks himself for what goddamn reason _is_ he still breathing and he remembers the light in Bucky’s eyes again and a surge of pain comes over him all over again and

He always puts the pistol back where it was, the blood rushing in his ears, and he goes back to drawing.

Moonlight glimmers on his shield as he sits in front of the window, stars twinkling above.

—

Thirty-seven hours after Steve wakes up on the bank of the river, he braces himself against the windowsill, his knees pressed against the hardwood floor. He tries to remember how to breathe when he thinks about the words pressed against his skin with each punch to his jaw from the Winter Soldier, the sound of whirring as loud as his heartbeat in his ears, the way Steve choked on blood before he pushes out the words, _“‘cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line,”_ and the terrified look stitched into the muscles of the face above Steve’s. He thinks of the way he offered up his beating heart: the sound of his shield dropping into the rushing water below.

Steve’s chest rises and falls, and his eyes fall closed as he grounds himself in the hard, cold sensation beneath his skin, and he blanks out in hopes of escaping reality.

The last thing he thinks of is the fact that the Winter Soldier still knows him. Morning rays shine through the blinds.

—

Five days after Steve wakes up on the bank of the river, the Winter Soldier allows himself to be found.

Steve almost wishes the Winter Soldier had finished his mission. They would both be happier that way; Steve buried underneath the Potomac, the one place he dreamed would be his last, a watery grave as his last chance to make things better for the man who pulls his unconscious, bleeding body from the rushing currents.

Th—Bucky comes to him with a broken rib and various bruises. Steve doesn’t ask questions, simply opening the door further to allow him inside. The apartment is large enough to accommodate the both of them, and Steve allows the man to take the space he needs.

Instead, Bucky shadows him for the first six minutes, refusing to sit down as Steve slowly makes his way around, grabbing the first-aid kit and filling a glass of water for the man who used to the do the same for him in another lifetime, brushing knuckles across his cheek, pressing soft fingers around black eyes.

Steve gently presses a hand to Bucky’s broad shoulder, guiding him to sit at the table in the kitchen. Bucky goes down without a fight, fingers still gripping his side tightly.

It’s easier this way, in the light of day, in the open space, without the temptation of pushing for more contact.

Steve is in the middle of wrapping bandages around Bucky’s dirt-stained torso when Bucky sighs, allowing his head to hang low, long locks of hair obscuring his eyes. He murmurs a _thanks, Stevie_ , and Steve finishes the job, having no words to describe the beautiful ache he has in his ribs once again, only this time it is to feel the callouses of his fingertips meet the sinewy muscle beneath Bucky’s skin, to linger on his shoulder blades, to cup his cheekbone, press his lips to—

“I remember doing this for you, that time Jim Markley punched ya so hard you feinted. You remember that? I broke his nose.” Bucky laughs self-deprecatingly, pulling his head up to meet Steve’s eyes, now sparkling with admiration, hands lying discarded on his lap. “Funny how things change, huh?”

He’s got remainders of his Brooklyn accent, bringing soft memories with it, of ice cream cones dripping over fingers, sunlight grazing his skin, a lean boy beside Steve with eyes as blue as the East River, a boy who is only ever present in his dreams.

Being this close is exhilarating, and Steve is overcome with the need to take all that he can as he observes the individual before him. Steve can see small cuts and scars on Bucky’s hands, and he can almost smell Bucky’s old cologne, he could reach out and touch the man before him, could run fingertips across the muscles of his stomach, stare in awe at the man who should be dead, who _was_ dead, and _still came back_ , who went through hell so many times, and Steve can feel the blood rushing in his ears all over again— he chokes on the love buried in his throat.

Steve offers a small smile as Bucky’s hindered breathing fills the room.

There’s no reason for him to be standing before Bucky any longer, and he tries to remember how to breathe again as he focuses on the shine of Bucky’s arm. The red star stares back accusatorily, a painful reminder. Steve takes a step back, with oddly cool skin, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Bucky to sit on the chair with his glass of water. He closes the door of his bedroom behind himself, hoping he can stave off this feeling long enough that he can offer Bucky his home without issue.

—

Nine minutes after shutting his bedroom door, counting breaths, pushing the hands crawling up his spine back down, Steve collects himself enough to be face-to-face with the man who kept him warm through the harsh Brooklyn winters.

Bucky’s still sitting on the kitchen chair, looking lost. Hair the shade of soil hangs above his shoulders, fingers pushing against each other, eyebrows furrowed. There’s a trail of glimmering light across his cheek.

It’s the childish look to his eyes that has Steve breaking, falling to his knees in front of Bucky, arms wrapping around Bucky’s thighs, Steve’s head resting on his knees, a stream of warmth flowing down Steve’s cheeks, murmurs of gratefulness for the man breathing heavily above him, whose hands intertwine in Steve’s hair, chest heaving painfully with sobs.

Steve pays no mind to the slight cool of Bucky’s left arm.

So much for calm and collected.

 

Steve can smell the rancid scent of his own tears, glances at Bucky, the tracks made in the grime on his face, the way his eyes have grown softer again, the way his shoulders slump when he breathes out shakily, the two of them making up for lost time.

_So much lost time_.

They stay that way for eight minutes, listening to each other breathe, the gears in Bucky’s arm whirring softly.

—

Steve ignores the burn in his joints from being in the same position for so long, slowly pulling himself upwards, but Bucky catches his hand as Steve tries to make his way away, hand scrubbing tears from his skin, their eyes catching fleetingly.

He can feel the words Bucky wants to say but doesn’t: I love you.

Instead, Bucky says, “The first thing that came back to me was your sixteenth birthday,” while hands press themselves to Steve’s skin, warm and solid, a feeling of safety washing over Steve.

Steve can feel the ball of tension inside him start to loosen. Bucky puts a finger underneath Steve’s chin, forcing him to look at Bucky.

“And the next was the night I fell,” Bucky’s blue eyes looking back at him steadily.

The air crackles with tension.

Steve’s resolve is slipping, and he whispers, “it’s been so long without you,” and with those words, he feels the rest tumble out. “I remember one night, it hurt too much knowing you were gone, but, Buck, it hurt so bad and I just couldn’t do it anymore—”

Bucky presses their foreheads together, both hands swallowing Steve’s cheeks as Steve heaves breaths in and out, and Bucky does what he always did best.

Bucky’s lips land on Steve’s and his eyes are so tired, his eyelids flutter shut, and he can feel something inside him come together, the ever-present ache flaming into a steady warmth, the ball in his chest releasing completely and Bucky’s still kissing him, he is whole again, he can breathe, and he feels Bucky murmuring apologies against his lips, and he kisses them away because they’re together and Bucky’s got a broken rib but he’s _alive and here and they have completely shattered any pretense they had before and_

Bucky’s lips are soft and warm against Steve’s, and it feels like a promise when Bucky slides a hand into Steve’s hair again, pulling back to press his lips against Steve’s forehead, whispering unintelligible words against his skin.

—

“I never could say no to you, could I, Stevie?” Bucky whispers to him, late that night, when they’re both exhausted and simply climb into bed together, no discussion needed.

Steve had pulled the curtains together, and let his sketchbook continue to sit on the window seat, and he knows the pistol will now be placed in a safer location, and he allows Bucky to come back to the home he had carved into Steve’s sinew so long ago, and when he wakes up during a nightmare of flames and the words _not without you_ etched into the sweat on his skin, Bucky tangles his feet with Steve’s and lets Steve hold him and remind himself that Bucky is alive and Steve manages to catch four hours and thirty-nine minutes of sleep that night, a new standard for him since he had started living without the man whose biceps were curled around his body.

When Steve tangles their fingers together, fitting in the spaces of their hands, it is the best answer Bucky will get.

—

It’s almost like 1939 again, but they’re both bigger now and they can press their lips together without fear that they’ll lose the other man now, but some things never change: like the way Steve fits so perfectly into Bucky’s arms, that Brooklyn fits snugly underneath their ribs, that they will forever be so completely wrapped up in each other’s lives they’ll never forget one another, even in death and resurrection, their orbits forever aligned that they will forever be together

til the end of the line.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm all for concrit!
> 
> If you want to cry over Captain America, or anything else really, feel free to drop me a line @ argylesweaters on tumblr :)!


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